


Is 'beautiful' the descriptor for 'distraction' or 'you'?

by casecous



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casecous/pseuds/casecous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It gets harder to pinpoint the exact moment they started feeling comfortable enough for casual contact.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is 'beautiful' the descriptor for 'distraction' or 'you'?

**Author's Note:**

> Short thing cross posted from [ [x]](http://casecous.tumblr.com/post/135720850823/is-beautiful-the-descriptor-for-distraction-or)

He doesn’t remember the first time she touched him.  


No, scratch that, he remembers clearly. His vision fades in and out and gunshots sound miles away, but they stop and two seconds later she’s crouching next to him. “Deacon, stay with me.” She sets her warm palm on his thigh, thumb on the inside, and grips. It grounds him, brings him back to the city street where he’s bleeding out onto the pavement. She grins at him, but there’s worry around her eyes and when he opens his mouth to make a joke, she jams a stimpak into the outside of his thigh and all that comes out is “son of a bitch!”  


A week later, he still can’t get the goddamn feeling of her hand on his thigh out of his head. It pops in at the most inopportune moments and distracts him. _Him._ At least she’s living up to that title he gave her, he guesses. 

It gets harder to pinpoint the exact moment they started feeling comfortable enough for casual contact. When they’re low on supplies and farther out from any settlement than they’d like to be, they find quieter ways to communicate. She scopes the territory, and he holds his hand out palm up, so she can tap with her finger. _6, no visible detour, stealth?_ He likes the times she steadies his hand with her free one. Hands that sometimes still tremble after she pulls the trigger, but never while stitching up a particularly bad wound.

When stealth means that a raider gets too close, he ends up pressed up against her in the shadows of an alley, her fingers curled around his elbow and the other flat against his chest. The pressing probably isn’t necessary, but she pulls and he follows. _The laws of physics can’t be broken,_ he would tell anyone who asked. Adrenaline is a bitch though, ‘cause that’s when it’s hardest to stop himself from just leaning down before one of them taps or whispers the all clear.

He starts calling her “pal” more. A sort of self preservation, you see. He didn’t think she noticed, but a while later, he asks her for something, and she says, voice as dry as the mojave and dragging out the last word, “You got it. _Buddy._ ” And he’d only ever heard her call the dog that.

Sometimes he doesn’t have time to shave while they’re on the road. The first time she sees it, she runs her hand through the red stubble on his head and along his jaw, slow and easy. “Ginger suits you,” she tells him fondly when her fingertips graze his chin and drop to her side.  
He ignores the flutter in his stomach. “Hey, don’t be getting any nickname ideas,” he warns, pulling his hat out to cover it.  


“I can’t make any promises for Piper,” she shrugs one shoulder, and he doesn’t know what unsettles him more, the reporter seeing his hair or Whisper talking to her about him. 

–

He finds her on the little bridge behind Sanctuary, back to the railing with one leg spread out straight, and the lantern casting an orange glow on her lost face.  


“Everyone’s been wondering where you snuck off to, boss,” he says, sitting down with his shoulder flush to hers and tapping her boot once with his. “It’s pretty late.”  


She doesn't turn her head to look at him, only flicks her wrist and sighs, “They worry too much.”  


“I guess it’s only natural when they’ve got something this good.” He keeps himself from tapping his boot against hers again, this time more of a nervous tic than the previous comforting contact.  


“Hm. And what about you? You the worrying type?” she asks, knocking her shoulder slightly against his, as he watches her hands fiddle with the strap on her boot of the leg that’s tucked in. One of those days.  


“Well,” he reaches over carefully to take her hand and pull it into his lap, so she doesn’t rip the strap, or at least that's what he tells himself. “I’m the one that went to find you, didn’t I?”  


“That just means I was your excuse to get away,” she says, finally glancing at him and giving his hand a small squeeze, a wordless _thanks for being here._  


He grins and squeezes back. “My personal favorite excuse.”  


They fall quiet, looking away from each other and into the distance, and she slides her hand out of his grip to flip his over and bring it into her lap instead, still needing some sort of movement to distract her from her thoughts. She runs her fingertips across his, down to his palm and he makes a pleased ‘hm’ as his fingers curls slightly at the touch before straightening again. Her index finger begins to trace a little house in the center of his palm, and lines like rays of sunshine around it.  


He smiles, feeling itchy and wanting to clear his throat. He doesn't. “Did I ever tell you about the time-”  


“I’ll let you stay if you’re quiet,” she interrupts with a small smirk on her face, tracing the symbol slowly over and over again.  


“Deal,” he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.


End file.
